


Fast

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fade to Black, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Other, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 10:51:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Or, Seven Times They Were Idiots and One Time They Sorted Their Nonsense.Aziraphale and Crowley keep falling into bed together, but Crowley never stays. Aziraphale doesn't understand - and he doesn't understand why he has to want more.





	Fast

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back on my nonsense. Enjoy!

Aziraphale fell back against the pillow with a contented sigh. Soft pillows were a sort of miracle in themselves - Heaven and Hell both claimed credit - and the one Aziraphale was reclining on was stuffed with only the very softest feathers; small, downy feathers from good angelic stock. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and realised he was wasting precious time. Time he could be spending looking at Crowley.

Crowley, the demon, his sworn enemy, who was already clambering off the bed on unsteady legs. They were always unsteady, but on this occasion it was more justified than usual; a human probably wouldn't have been able to move at all after his recent exertions.

"Leaving so soon?" It was barely a question; the angel could see Crowley hurriedly throwing on his toga and shoving his darkened glasses onto his face.

"Temptations to accomplish- already running late-"

"Well, I didn't mean to delay you-" But Crowley had literally hopped out of the window, one sandal still in his hand rather than on his foot, and Aziraphale was left alone.

He didn't expect the demon to spend hours cuddling, exactly, but he'd thought he might catch his breath, at least. He'd thought they might have to talk about it, about the terrible, foolish risk they'd taken in sleeping with the enemy. It seemed, however, that there was nothing to talk about.

* * *

Aziraphale supposed he should be embarrassed that he seemed to have passed out, but he blamed that entirely on his nemesis. Or he would have, if he had given it a second thought; more important, right now, was that he could hear clanking. Rather as if somebody was putting on a lot of heavy armour as quickly and quietly as possible, while letting out a steady stream of soft curses under their breath.

"Really, Crowley? You weren't even going to check I was alive?" There was a yelp and a louder clang, and Aziraphale forced his eyes open to see Crowley, breastplate at his feet, looking rather embarrassed. He was staring pointedly at the wall of the tent.

"Knew you were alive," the demon argued, "besides, I'd get a commendation if you discorporated."

"I'm not sure the circumstances would cover _ either _ of us in glory." Aziraphale sighed. "Do you need help with that?"

"No." Crowley was already fumbling with his armour again, but getting into it without miracles was definitely a two-man job. Or, at least, two man-shaped beings. 

Aziraphale let him struggle for a little longer, then stood, feeling the pleasant ache in various muscles as he did. Crowley still wasn't looking his way, so Aziraphale simply moved behind him and reached for the offending plates. He could have sworn Crowley shuddered as their fingers brushed together - a ridiculous notion; they'd certainly done more than brush their fingers together, what, half an hour ago? He couldn't have been unconscious for long, after all. No, Aziraphale was imagining the shudder. What he _ wasn't _ imagining was that as he reached around to fasten a strap - _ carefully, _ because naked, overstimulated corporations didn't react well to being pressed against metal - Crowley lurched away, jamming his helmet onto his head and slamming the visor down.

"Well, really," Aziraphale scolded, "that's not-" but before he could remind Crowley that the helmet went on last, since it got in the way otherwise, the demon had snapped his fingers. The remaining armour pulled itself from Aziraphale's hands and the floor where it had been scattered, and the Black Knight stood before him. Now, finally, that visor turned towards the naked angel, just for a few seconds… and the Knight strode out through the tent flap, blending swiftly into the darkness of the night. "Farewell, then," Aziraphale mumbled, and turned to crash back into his pile of furs and blankets. They were still warm.

* * *

Aziraphale had done his level best to get Crowley into bed _ before _ making his report on his temptations in Edinburgh. Crowley had to be informed, after all, and he'd thought it might be more pleasant to recount the details while propped, sated and sweaty, against the headboard of the rather nice bed in Aziraphale's room. Crowley, however, had resisted his meager wiles - to think that he, Aziraphale, should be the one to try to tempt the demon, and be thwarted - and had turned his own desires against him in order to wring information from the angel. Then, and only then, the demon had fallen upon him like a starving man upon a feast, and Aziraphale had been only too happy to be consumed. 

Crowley seemed a little dazed, when it was all over, and Aziraphale tried to stay as still and quiet as possible, as if that would make him stay. But then, certain as the rising of the sun, which wouldn't happen for at least three more hours, Crowley shifted under the sheets, slithering towards the edge of the bed. Aziraphale reached for him without thinking, and Crowley's reaction was so abrupt that the demon ended up sprawled on the floor. Aziraphale didn't get long to appreciate the view before the demon snapped his fingers to clothe himself, getting clumsily to his feet.

"Thanks for the details. _ Hamlet _'s sold out for tonight, by the way." He shrugged. "Careful what you wish for. See you around."

"Crowley-!" But the demon had fled, and Aziraphale could only lay back in his bed and watch as a small piece of paper drifted down towards him from the ceiling.

It landed on his face, and he read it quickly.

_ This be to confirm that Master Fell hath a reserved stool beside the players for this night's showe of _ Hamlet, _ be he present at the sounding of the cannon. _

"Oh, Crowley. Always a drama."

* * *

After they escaped the French prison - after Crowley _ rescued _him - Aziraphale found that he'd rather lost his appetite. He ate a crepe, of course, just to show willing, but the expression on Crowley's face was extremely distracting- and much more delicious than anything else at the table. He offered to walk Crowley back to his room, with every intention of staying in Crowley's bed to see if the demon would leave his own lodgings as swiftly as he always left Aziraphale's. 

They didn't make it; there was a revolution in full swing, after all, necessitating several frustrating changes of course. Still, Aziraphale could have handled the detours and delays - but then a rampaging mob had roared around the corner, apparently set on menacing everyone in sight, and Crowley had thrown himself at Aziraphale to send them both stumbling into a dark alley. Aziraphale's back had hit a wall, Crowley's slender form crashing against him, and suddenly the angel couldn't wait a moment longer to get his hands on him. Crowley hadn't complained - had, in fact, given as good as he got and more - and then, while Aziraphale was still straightening his clothes, the demon had snapped his fingers twice.

Aziraphale found himself in St James' Park, dressed as a respectable London gentleman, and looked around for Crowley. He was hardly surprised to catch only the briefest glimpse of his profile as he turned a distant corner.

* * *

Aziraphale was rather pleased, actually, when Crowley asked him to meet in St James’ Park again. It hadn’t been as long as usual between meetings, and Aziraphale was finding it hard to stamp out a glimmer of- well, of _ hope_, he supposed. Perhaps Crowley calling this meeting, so soon, _ here_, meant that he was prepared to spend time with him without - well, it seemed uncharitable to call it _ running away_, but he supposed that was what it was.

All his fantasies of a pleasant afternoon were swept aside, however, when Crowley had the nerve to ask him for Holy Water.

“Out of the question.”

“Why not?”

“It would destroy you. I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!”

He tried to listen to Crowley’s protests, he tried to believe that the demon wouldn’t use the deadly water on himself, but all he could think of was the unimaginable bleakness of a world without Crowley. He had felt a tiny fraction of that loss, every time the demon left a bed they’d shared, and he couldn’t bear to think of feeling it forever. So he got angry, and he stormed off, and Crowley never had a chance to leave him wanting because this time, he’d never let him get close at all.

* * *

After Crowley saved him from Nazis, Aziraphale was more than ready to forget what had happened with the Holy Water. It seemed Crowley was prepared to forget it, too - he even saved Aziraphale’s _ books_, for G- well, for _ Aziraphale’s _ sake, he supposed. Walking on consecrated ground had been foolish, but he had done it for Aziraphale, and the expression on the demon’s face had felt like a reflection of his own, if he wished hard enough. He had suspected it for countless years, but now he knew; Aziraphale was head over heels in love with Crowley. And Crowley, for all that he clearly enjoyed Aziraphale’s company, didn’t love him back. Not in that way. He _ couldn’t _ \- if he _ had_, he would have stayed after their frequent intimate encounters. No, Crowley just saw Aziraphale as a friend, a rival, and - in a twist of cruel irony - the only person on the planet it was safe to sleep with. Aziraphale would have to be happy with that.

Given the newly-discovered depth of his own feelings towards Crowley, Aziraphale suspected that the moral thing to do would be to abstain from any… carnal interactions with the demon. At least until he’d sorted his feelings out, or could find the courage to warn Crowley that things had changed. But had they changed, really? Hadn’t he been just as deeply in love with Crowley in that alleyway in Paris, or even in Rome, and just failed to admit it to himself?

Aziraphale was a good angel; at least, he liked to think so. But he wasn’t perfect, nor was he infallible. So when Crowley stopped the Bentley outside the bookshop and turned to look at him, he already knew his resolve would fail.

“Goodnight, then, angel?”

“Oh, won’t you come up?” And Crowley had smiled, looking almost relieved and almost panicked all at once, and he had followed Aziraphale up to the little flat above the bookshop.

Later - long enough later that Aziraphale felt as though he could just melt into the mattress and sleep for a week, despite the fact that he generally _ didn’t sleep_, but not nearly long enough later to satisfy his need to be close to Crowley - Aziraphale lifted his head to see that he was alone. That was ridiculous, even for Crowley; they had barely uncoupled and now the demon was nowhere to be seen. He returned, even as Aziraphale thought it, holding a damp washcloth, and for a moment the angel truly believed that he might be planning to stay in bed with him. But then he registered the fact that Crowley was fully clothed. He hadn’t expected Aziraphale to be looking, it seemed; he almost dropped the cloth before approaching and handing it to Aziraphale like an olive branch.

“I, er, I know usually I just miracle it- never mind. Here.”

“Thank you, Crowley.” He wanted to suggest that the demon help him clean himself up, that he get back into bed and let Aziraphale make him a mess again, but he didn’t dare. He knew what would happen if he tried. “Are you off?”

“Oh, er, yeah. You know London. People talk. ‘Specially with a war on.”

“Yes. Keep yourself safe, Crowley.”

“And you. Stay out of trouble.” The demon nodded, took a deep breath as if to speak again, and rushed from the flat. Aziraphale heard the shop door open and close, then lock again behind the demon, and sighed miserably.

He cleaned himself up with his eyes closed, trying to imagine that Crowley really _ had _stayed to help. It wasn’t enough.

* * *

He gave Crowley the Holy Water he’d asked for, eventually. It was 1967, and Crowley had been planning to acquire it for himself. Aziraphale didn’t want him trying to trip through a church, hopping and wincing, for a chalice full of Holy Water from the font. He would be destroyed, and Aziraphale would be without him, and that was no good for either of them.

Crowley took the Thermos, - Aziraphale had blessed the water himself, then carefully funnelled it into the flask, sealed it tight and dried the edges - and tucked it between his knees so he could drive. The expression on his face broke Aziraphale’s heart; it was as if Aziraphale had handed him the world, not the probable means of his own destruction. And, of course, Crowley tried to offer him the world in return.

“Can I drop you anywhere?” 

Aziraphale wanted to agree; he wanted to accept the lift, and then invite Crowley up, and have _ Crowley _ laid out in front of him, a world of his own to explore, a world he had visited many times but never truly had chance to spend _ time _in. A world he longed to know better. A world that was, and always would be, closed to him for more than fleeting visits.

“No, thank you. Oh, don’t look so disappointed,” he added, because Crowley did. “Perhaps one day we could… I don’t know… Have a picnic. Or dine at the Ritz.” It was foolish, offering up human _ dates, _ all but begging Crowley to understand that he wanted _ more_, that the demon’s body was all well and good but that he wanted his _ heart_. And he couldn’t allow Crowley to know that - no more than he must already suspect - because Crowley didn’t want to share that with him, didn’t even want to share a _ bed _the moment they were done abusing it. Crowley, thank Her, didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Then he got out of the car, and watched Crowley drive away, fighting the urge to pray that he got home safely with that flask. The last thing they needed was Her eyes upon them. It didn’t occur to him until later, as he sat at his desk and replayed the evening over and over in his head, that he’d misspoken.

“You go too _ fast _ for me, Crowley,” he’d said, when what he had _ meant _ was, “You _ go _too fast for me.” It didn’t matter, when it came down to it. All that mattered was that he and Crowley had to get some distance, until Aziraphale could learn to control his desires.

* * *

Crowley called him a few decades later, and the Apocalypse swung into action. They swung into action, too, trying to counter it, and for a while Aziraphale couldn’t see _ how _they would keep any distance between them. He made sure to remind Crowley at every turn that they couldn’t be caught, couldn’t be discovered working together, and Crowley seemed to accept it. It was Aziraphale, as ever, who struggled; he would invite him for drinks at the bookshop, knowing he shouldn’t, and then maintain a careful, agonising distance between them until Crowley sobered up and went home. They hatched a foolish plan to influence the child - not foolish because it wouldn’t work, but foolish because it would put them in close proximity for a prolonged amount of time - and Crowley’s Nanny Ashtoreth persona barely came near him. When she did, it was always Aziraphale - Brother Francis - who acted too familiar, and Nanny Ashtoreth would maintain a haughty distance. Warlock asked Brother Francis, once, why Nanny didn’t like the garden, and Aziraphale - who had once spotted the demon sneaking around under cover of darkness, menacing the shrubbery - had had to tell him that Nanny didn’t really like anything or anyone.

“Except you, of course, young Warlock.”

They met in secret, never anywhere too close to the young Antichrist’s home, always on separate seats on buses. When, finally, Crowley sat next to him on a bench as he had so many times before over the centuries, Aziraphale almost leapt out of his skin.

“They won’t see us, angel,” Crowley had said, but he’d kept to his own end of the seat. He’d stayed, though, long enough to exchange plans and pleasantries; Aziraphale had had to pull out his magic coin just to make sure neither of them got the urge to, ah… reconnect. It had had the desired effect; Crowley had been embarrassed by what he saw as a degrading mockery of Aziraphale’s actual powers, and Aziraphale had been nearly annoyed enough by that to stop _ wanting _ him.

Then they’d realised their mistake. The wrong boy, the wrong plan - and somehow it had all worked out, in the end. Then Heaven and Hell themselves had tried to destroy them, and only Agnes’ prophecy had seen them through. They’d gone home via the Ritz, because they could, and then they’d gone to Aziraphale’s shop to get drunk, and then they’d only had a glass of wine apiece before one of them - Aziraphale couldn’t swear, afterwards, which of them it had been - had lunged for the other and the other had gone willingly.

When it was over, Aziraphale felt the tell-tale shift of the mattress that meant Crowley was about to stand - and, without thinking, he threw an arm out to stop him.

“Stay,” he croaked, “please.”

“No, it’s all right, you don’t have to- I know- too fast, again-” Crowley had his blasted _ sunglasses _back on, already, and Aziraphale’s nerve almost failed him. He almost let him go.

“Crowley,” They should have had this conversation long ago, before this mess, _ certainly _ before they hopped into bed again. “Crowley…” He was a being of love. How could it be so hard for a being of love to admit to _ love_? But he was afraid; he was afraid it would ruin everything. He couldn’t say the words. “I hate it when you leave,” he confessed instead, and Crowley stopped trying to wriggle out from underneath Aziraphale’s hand, where it rested on his chest.

“Wh-?”

“I always have. All those times, you left so quickly- but the world almost ended yesterday, Crowley, and I can’t be without you yet. Please.”

“Angel-”

“_ Please_, Crowley. I don’t ask for anything more. I don’t ask you to _ love _ me-”

“You don’t have to.” Crowley was staring at the ceiling, when Aziraphale dared a glance at him. It still seemed as if even looking at him too intently might scare him away. “Just please don’t ask me _ not _ to, not if you want me to stay here, because I can’t keep _ hiding _it-”

“Hiding…?” Aziraphale frowned, running over Crowley’s words again until he was almost sure he’d found meaning in them. “Crowley, what have you been hiding?”

Crowley rolled over, turning his face into the pillow rather than looking at Aziraphale. He was still wearing his sunglasses; it looked rather uncomfortable, actually. Aziraphale fought not to stare at the demon’s exposed shoulderblades. He so rarely got to _ look _ at him, just _ look _ and not worry about chasing him. Distracted, eyes tracing the ridge of Crowley’s spine down to where it disappeared beneath the sheet, he almost missed the muffled words.

“You’d have seen it. If I’d stayed.” Crowley fell silent for a moment, but Aziraphale waited him out. “You’d have seen it in my eyes. Demons aren't supposed to- we’re supposed to be _ cut off _from- I know that’s why you chose me. No fear of feelings getting involved-”

“Crowley,” He almost didn’t dare to hope, but it almost sounded as though... “Crowley, if you’re about to tell me that there _ were _feelings-”

“Of course there are-”

“-I’m going to need you to look at me, I’m afraid, my dear. Some things shouldn’t be said into pillows.”

Crowley turned back with a huff, staring at the ceiling instead, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to talk. Aziraphale gathered what energy he had left and used it to shift, propping himself above Crowley and reaching down.

“I’ll tell you what I think, then, shall I? May I take your glasses for a moment?” Crowley made an instinctive noise of token protest, then nodded. Aziraphale wasted no time, carefully taking the glasses and setting them aside. Crowley, stubborn creature, had his eyes scrunched shut, and Aziraphale couldn’t resist moving in to press a gentle kiss to each closed eyelid. It was a strange feeling, but it had the desired effect; Crowley’s eyes opened slowly, reluctantly, and the angel could swear he saw a glimmer of hope in them. Demons were supposed to be cut off from _ hope_, too, but Crowley never had been very good at doing what he was supposed to.

“What do you think, then, angel?” It was a fair attempt at bravado; if Aziraphale hadn’t known Crowley so well, for so long, he might have even believed the question was casual.

“I _ think _ you feel more than just lust, dear. And I _ know _ that I love you. Have always loved you, since the beginning of all this. Before we ever went to bed together. And I thought you didn’t, because you always _ ran_-”

“I didn’t run!” It was almost a yelp. “I just- if I’d let myself stay, I couldn’t have helped it, you’d have known that I… that I loved you…” He took a huge, heaving breath, wide-eyed, and Aziraphale sympathised. “And you’d be disgusted.”

“Would I?” Aziraphale knew he was beaming now, knew he was only a heartbeat away from becoming _ radiant. _“I have spent so many nights, so many mornings clinging to the heat you left behind, wishing you could love me.”

“And I- I always hated leaving, Aziraphale-”

“Then don’t. Don’t ever leave me again.” It sounded altogether more demanding than Aziraphale had hoped, but Crowley’s eyes grew wide and dark and utterly snakelike, as if the order was all he’d longed for in all of eternity.

“You mean it.” Aziraphale nodded solemnly, and Crowley smiled, a fragile smile, as if he was afraid his joy would break the spell. “I won’t. I- I can stay?”

“You always could. Oh, Crowley-”

“Yeah. We’re idiots. _ I’m _ an idiot.” Crowley frowned. “Only… only you did say I go too fast for you, I thought you meant… I thought you meant you didn’t want this any more.”

“I meant… I know what I said, how I said it, but… you _ go _ too fast for me, Crowley. Afterwards… you _ leave _too fast.”

“Well.” Crowley frowned, then let out a disbelieving little snort of laughter. “How was I supposed to get _ that_?”

Aziraphale laughed, too; they were idiots, both of them, and they’d hurt each other so much by trying to protect their own hearts. Perhaps, now, they could do a better job of protecting each other’s.

“Crowley, my dear- will you stay and cuddle?”

And Crowley kissed him, dragging him down until he could wrap him up in all those limbs the demon never seemed to know what to do with, and there they were, safely nestled in each other’s arms for the first time. “You’re going to get bored of me sleeping on you, angel.”

“Never,” the angel promised, and watched with tender pride as Crowley finally - _finally _\- snuggled against him and went to sleep.


End file.
